The Consequences of Falling
by Gene's Gilly
Summary: Gene and Alex - together forever? 2008 - myth or reality? Galex of course! Warning: major character death in chapter 4.
1. Chapter 1

**The Consequences of Falling**

**Summary:** Alex and Gene – together forever? 2008 – myth or reality? Galex (of course!).

**Disclaimers:** Naturally I own neither Gene _et al_, nor LoM/A2A: they belong to Kudos and the BBC, alas...

**Acknowledgements: **The quotation at the end of Chapter 6 is taken from Volume 2 of the LoM Official Companion. As I'm sure you'll realise. Thanks to leakybiro for beta'ing and plot contributions.

**A/N:** Set after episode 8 of A2A, so spoilers for everything. Major character death in Chapter 4 – be warned!

Chapter 1

Quietly, DCI Gene Hunt let himself into the downstairs bar of Luigi's Italian restaurant. In the half-light that filtered through the stairwell, it looked like all night time places during the day: shabby, unkempt and sad. Gene smiled wryly – it reflected his mood, and seemed an appropriate place to be.

It was, in fact, where he had been on many preceding mornings, and he was beginning to feel at home with the upturned chairs, empty tables and unnatural silence. He went behind the bar and poured himself a not entirely legal drink. Luigi's license did not extend to serving before eleven in the morning, but Gene reckoned that as he'd served himself it didn't count. He wasn't intending to pay for it anyway, though he'd see that the restaurant owner was properly recompensed.

Sitting alone in a place intended for thronging, happy people, and where he had himself on occasion been very happy, Gene's loneliness bit him like a stray dog: mangy and cowed, but still maliciously ill-tempered. He took a mouthful of the sour beer and found it only mildly comforting. He thought of all the evenings he'd spent here with Ray, Chris, Shaz and the gang, before his infuriating DI staggered in wearing nothing but a wide belt and a bemused expression; all the evenings he'd spent here with her, getting progressively more inebriated and aroused, but continually resisting the impulse to do what she had once or twice almost invited him to do, because she was a colleague, a stranger, a fellow traveller on a particularly friendless road. He still hated himself for not seeing her safely to her room when she was simply too drunk – at his instigation and expense – to resist the lechery of that passing red-braced opportunist, as much a pervert in Gene's eyes as any rapist, because both preyed on those unable to defend themselves.

He grimaced. If any other bird had done what Bolly-knickers had done, he would have written her off as a common tart and had nothing further to do with her. The fact that he saw Alex Drake as a victim rather than a perpetrator showed how different she was, and how differently he felt about her. During the past week, when she had yet again taken leave from work and his days had no longer been filled with her outrageous clothes, sensuous perfume and irritatingly bouncy curls, he had done some hard, painful thinking, and come to what should not have been a revelation by anyone's standards: that he was, in spite of himself, in love with her. He would have to act on that fact one way or another, either by consciously ignoring it and getting on with life regardless, or by declaring his feelings and risking a gentle brush off – as he'd received from her on more than one occasion – or brutal rejection.

He felt his chest contract at the thought. It was the worst thing he could imagine, and it made him realise how deeply in over his head he was. He'd been in love before of course, and had his heart broken too, but even those bitter and formative experiences seemed minor compared to this. Alex was far more precious and rare than anything else in his life, and contemplating her, and the strangeness of her, naturally made him think of that other life-changing person who had crashed into his settled, ordered world and turned it upside down. Sam Tyler had changed everything – even the very place he lived and worked – and if Sam had been a woman, Gene would have been as much in love with him as he was now with Bolly. The idea brought another wry smile to his lips. Sam's 'gay boy' science and Alex's psychological new-speak made him realise that he had been half in love with Sam, though he couldn't have explained it to anyone, had never dreamt of sexualising their relationship, and certainly wouldn't in a million years have admitted it. His friendship with Sam had been hard-won, solid and blood-deep, the kind of friendship that a man experiences only once in his lifetime, when he recognises a brother, clasps him close, and knows he will never let him go.

But Sam had gone, slipping away from Gene like quicksilver, and a part of his heart had been torn out with him. He even found it painful to talk to Annie now; despite his contributions to her family – financial and otherwise – it upset him that she knew mere duty kept him calling, and she was quietly slipping away from him too. He'd lost Sam, and Sam's children, for ever, and the wounds were still fresh and raw. It was his own fault: the Gene Genie wasn't supposed to form attachments, to make friends. He'd broken that rule, and Sam had paid the ultimate price.

He sure as hell wasn't going to lose anyone else.

Which brought him back to why he was here: to make sure Alex had safely negotiated another night's storms, and was ready to face the day. As if to echo his thoughts, he heard movement from Luigi's flat, and a few minutes later the little Italian emerged, plump in production line _bonhomie_, paisley pyjamas and striped dressing gown, and carrying coffee for his good friend Gene. He looked at the empty beer glass with obvious disapproval, but said nothing: he knew the policeman well enough now to accept him on his own terms.

"You do not look right, sitting there by your own," Luigi said as he sat down and pushed Gene's coffee across the table. "It is a wrong place, an empty room like this."

"Would you like me to mention the war, Luigi?" Gene's voice was just this edge of dour.

Luigi laughed in the particularly humourless fashion he had perfected over the years. "No thank you, Mr Hunt, your colleagues are very fine for that. You have come about the lovely signorina again, no? She is ironing her beautiful clothes now – I take her coffee, just like you, to say hello – but I think she will not join you for work, as she does not wear anything."

Gene spluttered into his drink. "I won't ask how you know."

Luigi shrugged. "She ask me in to check the iron. She is not wearing much. A beautiful lady, Mr Hunt, but not my beautiful lady, so we are good together."

Gene sighed. "One day, my friend, you must learn English. In the meantime, I'll have another coffee, this time in a proper mug, not one of these semi-tassies." It was a word Alex had taught him, and he felt rather superior for remembering it. For a second.

"Demitasse," a seductive voice whispered in his ear. As he twisted round, its owner walked behind him and sat down in the chair between Luigi and himself and, gentleman that he wasn't, he couldn't help noticing that, while she might now be wearing one of his spare shirts – it always gave him a thrill when she did that – she wasn't wearing much else. In her hand she clutched an iron, completing the surreal image. "It's a demitasse, and I'll have another one too, Luigi, if I may."

Gene's eyes met Luigi's in briefly-shared male appreciation of Alex's state of undress. Then the moment was over; Luigi left to fetch the coffees, and Gene spoke. "It's good to see you up and about, Bolly, but why the household implement?" He eyed the iron warily.

She waved it at him, and he flinched. "Luigi said he'd fixed it, but it doesn't work."

"Huh. Doesn't surprise me. So how are you, Bols?"

"Better." She smiled thinly, and he saw the pain that still haunted her, the shadows beneath her eyes. She'd lost colour and weight since she'd witnessed Tim and Caroline Price's deaths, and Gene wished he'd been able to run to her where she knelt on the ground, distraught and screaming, rather than taking the hand of their shocked and silent daughter, and leading her to safety. It had been weeks ago – Christmas was almost upon them – but still she lapsed into these black depressions, and still he had to drag her out before she drowned.

"Better enough to come back to work?"

"Missing me?"

"Definitely better enough to come back to work. No, not me – it's Raymondo. Pining for you, he is."

Alex grimaced. "Well, as long as it's for Ray… Thanks, Luigi."

"Seriously, Alex. How are you?"

"Why are you being so nice to me, Gene?"

_Because I love you._ "Because you are a valued member of my team, DI Drake, and at the moment I am a woman short."

Alex giggled, but it was a strangely sombre sound. "I keep reliving it, but at least this time I knew what to expect."

"The Prices? Oh, your mum and dad… It's all in the past now, Alex." He didn't know why he had to keep reminding himself that her childhood had not been like other people's. How could he have forgotten so easily? Every thought about the Prices must bring the deaths of her own parents back afresh.

"Yes."

"That poor kid."

The shock of her cool, soft hand on his took his breath away, light and peripheral as it was. Without thinking, he turned his own hand over to hold hers, and her fingers curled around it in response. "You saved her, Gene. In all that horror, you saved her. She will remember you always."

"I should have come to you." It was less than he felt, perhaps more than he should have said, but she just shook her head.

"You did the right thing. She will hold your hand all her life."

"I hope she'll forget it as soon as possible. Why?"

She met his eyes, and he felt, as he always did, their depth and thrill, their mystery and beauty. They were the most astonishing eyes he had ever seen, drawing him in, and all he had to do was surrender, lean towards her, until they gently closed with the soft perfection of a kiss… He blinked, breaking the spell, though his expression remained desperately poised between desire and despair.

"Don't you know?"

He shook himself, something half-remembered slipping away from him even as he grasped it. "I did my job, Bolly. I'd rather take a bullet in an alley than do what I had to for that little girl."

"But you will take care of her, won't you?"

"She's got your Evan White to take care of her. He's not going to like it if I stick my nose in, is he? And he does seem to genuinely love her."

"I want you to keep an eye on her anyway."

"Don't you trust him?"

"Of course I do, and I know he'll do a great job of bringing her up, but I want you to be there for her too. A bit of – " she smiled " – oh, rugged masculinity."

"Huh," he replied, but not dismissively. "I'm not very good with kids. But – " he held up his free hand as she started to protest " – I'll try, OK?"

"Thank you, Gene." She smiled the little girl smile that melted his heart. "It's important to me." He wondered why. What did she and the child share, more than a name? Parents dead, in an explosion – that was strange. Something like knowledge tugged at the corner of his mind, but he didn't give it the attention it craved, and it soon gave up and wandered away.

"Anything else I can do for you, while I'm in this expansive mood?"

She didn't immediately answer, instead gazing beyond his shoulder at something only she could see. So intent was she that he almost turned to look, although he knew there could be nothing there. He felt completely out of his depth, wanting beyond anything else to heal her wounds, but not even knowing where she was hurt, never mind how to cure her. "Will you make me a promise, Gene?"

He looked into her pale, gaunt face, and wished he could give her the world. But he couldn't, even if it had been his to give. He had to be strong – had to save her from the Gene Genie's curse. "What?" He wished he could have been gentler.

"Promise me…" The pressure of her hand in his tightened, and he resisted the urge to reply in kind. "Promise me that you'll never leave me."

Leave her! Leave her, when virtually everything that he valued in this world was sitting in front of him, embodied in her? When even the thought of a life without her was empty and cold, she being his sunshine and the warmth of daylight on his skin? The loss of his dearest friend in that stupid, unnecessary car chase had sucked his soul almost dry, and it had withered like an autumn leaf, dry and unloved. But she had made his job worthwhile again where it had become a duty, his life a joy where it had seemed a shell. That he had fallen in love with her was a ghastly complication, quite unintended, exposing them both to danger and pain, but he felt alive and vital in a way that he hadn't for months. Sometimes, she made him think he could see the wind, hear the grass growing – feel the heartbeat of time itself. And all without her giving anything back. How much more rich and glorious if she loved him… The beauty of it would have been almost unbearable.

Which is why he would have to refuse her. If she got too close, he would lose her, just like Sam – and, just like Sam, it wouldn't be him who would pay. The words rose to his lips, bitter like bee stings. "You making me a proposal, Bolly? Takes more than that to catch the Gene Genie."

He saw the flick of pain behind her eyes, unnaturally bright as she ruthlessly suppressed her reaction. His heart cried out with the agony of turning away from her, this woman who was all he had ever wanted, and whose like he would never find again. But he knew it was necessary, and his face hardened. He couldn't – he mustn't…

She saw it – he knew she saw it. He sensed an answering bleakness in her own expression, and the moment when he might have changed his mind was gone. Pulling her hand free of his, she pushed at her chair. "That's not what I meant," she said. "I thought you might understand. Silly me." Then she was gone, running up the stairs to the safety of her flat. Her quiet despair was far worse than any anger, and he felt as though she'd ripped him apart.

Gene's face mirrored his emotional turmoil. He dug his nails into his palms, proof against a greater, unseen pain, and his eyes began to shine as he stood up to leave. But then again, it might just have been a trick of the light.

What if he was wrong? What if Alex was going to suffer anyway – or indeed not suffer? Why did he assume that he was vital to everything that happened here, that whatever he did would inevitably influence her, for good or ill? Perhaps he was being obsessively self-centred. Could he afford to let go: to relax his grip? Life would surely go on whatever he did, so perhaps he could stop being the Gene Genie, just for a little while…

He watched Luigi come down the stairs, and saw the caution in the man's eyes. Well, Gene had bitten his head off on occasions less stressful than this, so maybe he was wise. Wiser than Gene, whose carefully-ordered world might have been knocked sideways by Sam Tyler, but was being demolished by Alex Drake. Did it matter? Did it matter, as long as she was happy? Did it matter, as long as he was happy?

It was a startling thought: that in the midst of all his responsibilities, there might be a chance of something as apparently marginal as happiness. What if that was his true purpose here, and not – as he had always thought – looking after people, protecting the weak, punishing the wicked, serving the common good? What if the Gene Genie himself mattered, after all?

Luigi approached and broke his reverie, for which he was profoundly grateful; he was getting into deep and murky waters. "The signorina, she is coming with you?"

"No, Luigi, the signorina is not coming with me," he said sadly. He grabbed at his unfinished drink, downing the now chill liquid in one gulp. Grimacing, he strode towards the exit, regaining his accustomed assertiveness with every step. "You can tell her I've gone. And that was bloody horrible coffee."

He took the stairs two at a time, and walked alone into the chilly sunlight.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It was an almost contrite Alex who walked into CID the following morning. Like Gene, she had done some hard thinking during the past twenty four hours, and come to a similarly momentous conclusion, although the realisation of her true feelings had not hit her quite as hard as his had hit him. But accepting that she did, after all, love this man, had brought her a strangely unexpected measure of peace. Had he loved her in return, she would have had to resist in order to remain heart-whole when she left: but he didn't, did he? So she wasn't in any danger. She could love him in secret and, though she knew enough of human nature to realise that both he and Ray would probably guess her state of mind, she was confident she could handle their suspicions. She had let her concentration slip the day before, reaching out to him as she had all those years ago – though she hardly knew if she had been asking for herself or for the child – and he had gently slapped her down.

He obviously didn't care for her, even though the signals she'd received from him had been mixed and muddled, and she experienced both relief and anguish as a result, while channelling her love into something more practical, like not throwing wobblies every few days. When you loved someone it had to be on their terms, not your own, and that was her tragedy.

At least, she thought, as she smiled at Shaz in thanks for the coffee the younger woman brought her, she could cope with her bereavement as an adult. In some ways it was better: she could address the situation intelligently, with full knowledge, and try to resolve it and move on. In others, it was worse: that full knowledge brought horrors unthought-of by the childhood Alex, and a misplaced sense of responsibility. But she was beginning to regain some of her equanimity as the immediate memory faded, and her own personal strength and unfailing love for Molly was already urging her to resume the fight to get home.

"How are you feeling, Ma'am?" Shaz asked. It was the same question she asked of Alex every time she returned after another few days with her head in the sand, and Alex blessed her for it.

"I think I'm actually feeling better Shaz, thank you," she replied. "Post stress reaction – we're all more fragile than we think."

"I remember how I felt, when I was stabbed. You saw something awful – you take your time, Alex." She leaned over her superior officer as she said it, so no-one would hear her use Alex's name.

Alex smiled gratefully. Favourite construct – yes, Shaz definitely qualified. As for the others… Who they were would depend on what she was doing here – and where 'here' was. Now that Tim and Caroline were dead, did she have a purpose? Was it just a question of drifting aimlessly on until she died or regained consciousness in that other life? That would mean that nothing here was of any value: she was, effectively, in a waiting room, her fate dependent on something entirely out of her control. Or perhaps this was another kind of waiting room: perhaps she was truly dead and this was purgatory, cleansing her of all those bad things she'd been taught about in childhood, in preparation for some greater, unknown glory. She shivered at the thought, then smiled: childhood lessons ran deep.

"Glad you could join us, DI Drake." She looked up to see Gene towering over her, hands on hips and face in neutral. _Please don't let him be having an off day_, she thought. "What?"

"Sorry?"

"Something has amused you. Would you care to share it with your colleagues?" Yes, he was having an off day.

She looked back with all the insolence her weary brain could muster. "I was just contemplating the interesting theory that this is purgatory and you are, in fact, the devil."

Gene squared his shoulders and rubbed his hands together. "Ooh – promotion!" he said, raising his eyebrows. She sighed. Why, so soon after resolving to be nice to him, did she just want to give him a good slap? "Well, since you are with us and we are a full team again, let's get to work!"

He turned on his heel and vanished into his office, leaving her wrong-footed. She suddenly had no idea what she had expected from him: there had been no gentleness in his eyes, but there had been no direct rebuke either. He hadn't asked how she was – well, perhaps she hadn't expected that – but he had said that his team was complete, which was surely the greatest professional compliment he could pay her. Despite the chill of her loneliness, she felt a warm glow as she watched him settle at his desk, and a small lump of gratitude grew in her throat.

For someone who was supposed to be working, her day was remarkably light, and it wasn't long before she recognised Gene's deft rerouting of chores so that she would have just enough to keep her mind occupied, but not enough to stress or distress her. She couldn't decide whether to be amused, annoyed, flattered or insulted, but in the end opted for the feelings that gave Gene the benefit of the doubt: he was, after all, trying to look after her in his clumsy, non-PC way.

The laziness of the day, punctuated by coffees from Shaz, jokes (and not all of them at female expense) from Ray, and a degree of tomfoolery from Chris that was both unexpectedly skilled and surely inappropriate for an office, gave her an unwonted chance to daydream.

Gene's door was open, and she knew he was keeping a weather eye on her. Perhaps he regretted yesterday's hasty dismissal? Perhaps he did care for her after all? She shook her head: no – that way lay madness. She could not allow herself to slip into a situation where her love for Gene and her love for Molly came into conflict, for one would inevitably have to be sacrificed: she knew which one it would be, and she didn't think, back in the 'real' world, that she could survive the heartache.

But surely it did no harm to daydream? She allowed herself the indulgence and was both irritated and amused that, with a man like him to work with, she couldn't even come up with a decent fantasy.

In the best of a very substandard bunch, she found herself curled up in front of a roaring open fire, digging her toes into a sheepskin rug, sipping champagne from a long, cool flute. Gene, dressed only in a light silk dressing gown, his blond hair dark from the shower, dropped to his knees beside her. Leaning over, the silk falling from his body as he did so, he plucked the drink away and smashed the glass in the fire, which leapt up in instant reply. Pushing her back on the soft rug, she felt the fibres bite into her back as he roughly caressed her thighs, his robe sleek against her skin as his body melded to…

"Ugh!" She looked around, scared that someone might read her mind. "How bloody middle class!" As tacky fantasies went, it was the worst sort of Thatcherite wankerism: _not_ what she wanted from Gene. She knew what she did want: gentleness, tenderness, intelligence and humour. She closed her eyes. For those, she would give much…

"Keeping you up are we, inspector?"

She answered without thought. "Oh, Gene – you're not even a radical devil. You're just bourgeois! Where does it come from?"

For a second, Gene looked as if he was going to try and understand, but then it became obvious that he had moved on to more important things. "Something to get your teeth into, Bolly," he announced, as much to the rest of the room as to her. "A man's taken a hostage down at Silvertown. He's in a shipping container on a building site and they want a negotiator down there right now." He looked at Alex. "You."

Alex, her fantasy forgotten, was appalled. Not only did she feel as fragile as an eggshell at a let's-make-an-omelette party but, psychologist or not, it was a long time since she'd had any negotiation training, and her technique could at best be described as rusty. "Haven't they got anyone at the local nick – Woolwich? Couldn't someone from Essex – "

"Can't be done," Gene curtly replied. "It's yours, Bolly – I told them you were the best." The comment nonplussed her, but she didn't have time to savour or curse the moment. "The hostage is a nine-year-old girl."

"Dear God," whispered Ray, his face a picture of fear and disgust. She glanced at him: repeatedly these people surprised her, and she had to remind herself that they were not cardboard cut-outs, but had full, three-dimensional lives, however hidden. Even Ray, for all his misogynistic and monochrome attitudes, was essentially a good man.

So, another child needed her, and this time she would not fail. Gene had saved the last one, and now it was her turn. She stood up uncertainly, and caught Gene's eye: its expression of confidence gave her strength, and she nodded briefly. "Come on, then."

* * *

As the Quattro spun to an impressive halt in the centre of the building site, spraying a wide arc of sandy gravel around them, Gene realised with singular annoyance that such ground was less than conducive to keeping the underside of his car squeaky clean. He opened his door and almost stepped into two inches of rich, thick mud. "Shit!" he exclaimed and, with the door still swinging, drove forward two feet. Looking down at a new patch of slightly drier ground, he nodded in satisfaction. "Better. Right, let's get this bastard."

He strode towards the large, blue container the site foreman indicated, while workmen stood around untidily, curious and wary. He felt a tug on his sleeve and, sighing in irritation, turned to find – as expected – Alex's eager and slightly breathless face urgently looking up at him. She had sensibly opted for flat shoes from Viv's stores in place of her usual heels, and it gave him a quite inappropriate pleasure to look down on her. "What?"

"You wanted a negotiator on this, Gene – you can't just go barging in there! He's got a hostage – a child – there's no knowing what he might do. Now you wait – I mean it, wait! – while we find out what happened. Chris – Ray – find out what started all this."

He recognised the common sense of what she was saying, even though it went against all his instincts. He just wanted to sort out this sewer rat and get the little girl away from him. His mind flashed back to another child, long ago, a ten-year-old he hadn't reached in time… He took a deep breath, mastering the memory's horror.

"Gene?" He felt hand on his sleeve, saw the concern in her eyes, realised he had revealed more than he intended.

"I want that kid out of there," he growled. "God knows what's happening to her."

"We can't just rush in. You know that."

"Yes, well. I hope you're good at this negotiating lark, Drake. There's a child's life at stake here." The thought of losing such innocence filled him with nausea. He would rather put himself through any amount of abuse than see a child suffer; it was the one thing he had in common with most of those he arrested, and he was proud of it. Becoming aware that Alex's hand was still resting on his arm, he tried to lighten his mood. "What's the matter, Bolly – want to marry me?"

Her eyes flashed, and he knew at once he'd made a mistake. "If that's a proposal, Mr Hunt, you should be careful – I might just say yes." He stared at her, astonished. She stared back, as if herself surprised at the words. They were very close, and the world around them held its breath, frozen in the moment. He moved imperceptibly towards her, as if drawn by an exquisite, alluring spider on threads of finest silk. Her eyes, hazel – no, green – no, the shifting colours of woodlands in spring – he was falling into those eyes, falling to his beautiful death. She was so close. All he had to do was reach out...

"Guv! Guv!" Ray's voice tore it all apart, and Alex moved quietly away, as if ashamed. Ashamed, he thought – ashamed, of him? He felt beaten, subdued, and a shaft of unhappiness pierced him like a blunt knife: effective, messy and intensely painful.

"Ray."

"His name's Billy Grey, he's worked here for two and a half years, and the kid's his own daughter."

"His daughter?" echoed Alex. "Well he's not going to do anything to hurt his own daughter, is he?" The three men looked at her, and the implications of her words hit home. "Oh!" She sounded as though she'd been physically hurt, and Gene didn't need to be told that she was thinking of the child Alex. Why was she so affected by her? Looking at her now, he felt sick at heart. His job as Gene Genie was to help her, not leave her carrying this burden.

"Let's hope not," he replied. "Come on then, Bols, you've got what you needed – now amaze us." She smiled, and he saw that she'd snatched her equilibrium back. She would survive, he knew – he just hoped her heart would be intact at the end of it all. "Let's go."

He watched her walk towards the container, keeping a respectful distance, but not one he couldn't cover in three seconds flat if needs be. She paused at the entrance, where the door gaped like the mouth of hell, and looked back at him. He smiled – something he knew he did too rarely with her – and felt her eyes lighten. The she turned back, and was gone.

Sprinting across the wet, shifting sand, he pressed his ear to the metal, and found that despite the fact that it seemed to be moving with every step Alex took, the acoustics were good. Chris and Ray joined him, and the three listened intently.

"Mr Grey? Mr Grey, are you in here? I'm sorry, it's so dark, I can't see you." There was a pause, but no reply. "Mr Grey," Alex's disembodied voice continued, "I'm a police negotiator. I'm here to make sure we all get out of this safe and well, OK? Can you talk to me, sir? Are you in here?"

"I'm here." It was a rough voice, but not uncultured, and not what he'd expected.

"Is your daughter with you?"

"Course I am!"

Gene sighed with relief. The child sounded fine; there was no hint of fear or coercion in her voice.

"You alone?"

"No, I have three colleagues with me. But they're outside, Mr Grey: you're just talking to me now, unless you want me to call them in."

"Where's that sodding solicitor?"

Alex's voice hesitated, but only for a moment. Good girl, Gene thought. "There's only the four of us here at the moment. Did you want to speak to him?"

"I want to know if he's gone."

"We didn't see anyone on our way in."

There was a flash of light, and for a second Gene thought the man had set off a bomb. He was already starting to move, but there was no answering crash, no smoke or fire, and he realised with relief that Grey must have a torch. As he watched the erratic movement of black and white assault the door, he glimpsed Alex's shadow dancing over the inside of the container like a demented sprite, and loved its surreal starkness.

"What's your name?"

"Alex Drake. Why were you worried about a solicitor?"

"I'm not supposed to see my kids. I've been caught before and she said this time she'd put her solicitor on to me. I just asked Sair to meet me here – have a bit of a chat – I love my kids. But she…"

"She?"

"My wife. All I want to do is see them."

"So why can't you?"

There was a pause. "She doesn't want me. But I've only got the three – kids need their dad, don't they?"

_Not always_, thought Gene. This bloke seemed all right on the face of it, but who knew what lay beneath? Who would have guessed at the darkness in Tim Price – what tangled paths he must have thought his way through – before his final terrible act? A final act that he had agreed to erase from history, for a child's sake.

"You need to talk to your wife," Alex's voice replied. "You need someone professional to help you both sort this out. But the first thing you need to do is let me take your little girl outside."

"I'm all right." It was only the second time she had spoken, and only three words, but now Gene had her: aggressive, sassy, defiant, probably intelligent – definitely not in danger. He relaxed, his years of training and his natural ability to read people reassuring him that this situation, at least, would end without violence and death. He sighed in useless frustration: his years of training had failed him before now. How had he got Tim Price so wrong? Introspective, brooding, he must have planned his actions for weeks, if not months; Alex had said he couldn't have known about Caroline and Evan White because he was in America, but what if he'd been spying on them all that time? An obsessive, possessive intellectual – nothing Gene could have done would have deflected him. The knowledge made him feel a little better, but not much. Two clever, high-minded people dead – a little girl parentless. He just hoped he could trust his battered judgement here.

A movement at the entrance to the container jerked him out of his reverie, and a child stepped over the metal rim. Her face was grubby, her clothes not particularly well-fitting, but beneath the dirt she was strong and healthy, and her future stretched out before her like the muddy patch of ground she stood on: soggy and full of potholes, but a pathway to something better. As her weight transferred from the container, it slipped a few inches. On this waterlogged riverside, Gene wasn't surprised.

"Come on, darling," he said, holding out his hand to her. "Let's get you out of here and somewhere warm and dry, eh?" Eyeing him with suspicion, keeping her distance, she accompanied him to the car but would not take his hand.

Glancing back, he saw that Alex was also safely out in the open, her arm around a mud-spattered figure whose demeanour screamed all the defeat his daughter so clearly spurned. In a moment of deep unprofessionalism, he hated this poor man who sheltered in her embrace. When had she ever put an arm around him? When had he ever been able to nestle against her breast, no longer the Gene Genie but just someone needing to be loved? When had she ever offered to hold him?

He bit his lip, and watched her walk closer. When had he ever asked her?


	3. Chapter 3

Quietly, DCI Gene Hunt let himself into the downstairs bar of Luigi's Italian restaurant

Chapter 3

At first, Alex found talking to the child – Sarah, she reminded herself – Sarah, she has a name – almost impossible. Her wide-eyed confusion, longing glances towards the door whenever anyone walked by, and her easy, open expression were everything that Alex had felt all those years ago, and everything that her younger self had been unable to express. The nearest she'd come to sharing her innermost fear and grief had been with the tall, strong stranger who had taken her hand and led her gently away from the carnage; as he carried her back to her uncle Evan, she had clung to him, creeping into his great, thick coat as she might have taken shelter in a cave during a storm.

Or perhaps she had made that memory up, along with so many others. Why couldn't Gene have stayed with her? He was solid, powerful, intelligent, magnetic… She brought herself out of her reverie with a start. That was adult Alex thinking, not little Alex. Though if she imagined really hard, she could almost feel herself in his arms. She sighed. Oh to be there now, with all that innocence and trust, without the weight of grown-up baggage and hidden agendas. She longed for a simple mark of affection from him, a mark she was sure she would never receive. Just to rest her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, feel his arm around her; he'd done it once, and appeared to mean it, so why not again? Because then, he thought they were dying – because then, he thought it wouldn't matter. But it had seemed so much more...

"Ma'am," Shaz' matter-of-fact voice said just too loudly, covering her lack of attention.

"Shaz," Alex brightly replied, putting on a smile as she would her make-up. "Let's start, shall we? Sarah – may I call you Sarah?"

The child nodded. Behind those frightened eyes was a clear sharpness, and Alex realised why she and her father shared such a bond: his daughter was a chip of the old block, and must have delighted him. _That's how it's supposed to be,_ she thought. Her brief conversation with William Grey, while not giving her much in the way of facts, had made his personality clear: a careful, thinking man who had found himself in the middle of a nightmare. Quite what the nature of that nightmare was, she didn't know, but it was certainly worse than anything she was facing. She had friends, people she loved – and one man she loved a whole lot more than she should do – but he seemed to have no-one.

"Tell us everything that happened, Sarah. I'm not going to ask you any questions, not yet, and we won't interrupt you. Just tell us everything that happened – what it's like at home, what your mum and dad do, if you've got brothers and sisters, school… And then how you got onto that building site with your dad, OK?"

"You won't make me say anything bad about him," Sarah said defiantly. "He's my dad, and we stick together."

Alex almost burst into tears. "That's great, Sarah – you're so lucky to have a dad like that. Now, you tell me everything you can, especially what makes your dad so cool."

The girl eyed her with deep suspicion, clearly expecting that her father would suffer for anything she said. To see her loyalty, when she must have been terrified in that dank, dark container, filled Alex with admiration and exasperation. But they could make no progress if they didn't have something from the girl. "He doesn't live with us."

"How do you feel about that?"

"Well I miss, him, don't I? Your dad ought to live with you, oughtn't he? Specially when your mum can't cope."

"Can't cope how?"

"She leaves the gas on, she doesn't do any tidying up, doesn't even feed the baby sometimes. That's my little brother, Johnny – Sylvia next door comes and looks after him sometimes. When there ain't – isn't – any money left."

Alex smiled at the girl's automatic correction of her grammar, knowing it was important, but not yet knowing how. "So your neighbours help out?"

The girl looked disdainful. "What are you on? They've got to, or we'd have the social round, then they'd want to see the whole block and then all the kids'd be carted off, wouldn't they? People like that don't understand, just 'cause we don't live like they do."

Alex sighed: self-interest ruled, as always. "So when did your dad leave? Where does he live now?"

"About – I don't know, three years ago? They kept rowing, chucking things at each other. It wasn't very nice. I got cut once." She pulled up a sleeve to show a thin scar threading the length of her lower arm. "Piece of granny's wedding china – that's what mum said – did that. Took me to the London, got it stitched. I didn't cry, but it bloody hurt."

"Who took you?" asked Shaz, and Alex acknowledged the 'lobotomised Essex girl's' perspicacity.

"Both, of course. How'd it look if only one of them did?"

"So – what did they say happened?"

"I said I tripped and fell on the cat's food. These questions are really stupid. You're trying to get me to say something bad about my mum and dad, I know that. I'm not going to."

"I'm not. Look, I'm not, Sarah. I want to help you – yes, I'm sure loads of people say that all the time and don't mean it – but I do. I can only help you if you help me first, give me something to work with. You love your dad, so that must mean he's OK. Let's try and find a way through all this stuff to make it work again, yes?" She spoke as if she meant the words – and she did mean them, to a degree – but she was deeply aware of the bitter, acrid ironies of what she was saying. God forbid that this child should suffer what she had suffered. "Where does your dad live now?"

Sarah became smaller, and dropped her eyes. "I – I don't know. He won't tell me. I think he's afraid I'd come and see it and think he wasn't worth anything. I'd never do that, but that's the thing with grown-ups, isn't it – 'stupid pride', that's what my mum calls it."

Alex drew breath: the girl had a wisdom horribly beyond her years. "Let's talk about your mum. Do you think she needs any help? In the home, at work?"

"My mum, get a job?" Sarah shook her head with the experience of an old lag. "You're on a different planet, miss."

"Why?" Alex was genuinely interested.

"She's got no exams – she's never had a job. Like she says, what could she do? They've cut down what she gets from the social, and Ridley Road isn't what it used to be."

Alex glanced at Shaz. "Ridley Road?" she mouthed.

"Street market in Hackney, Ma'am. I bet you can get some good stuff there after closing, yeah?"

"Not like it was. They sell everything now – don't chuck anything away. And I'm not small like I was – they'll whip you if they catch you."

"Let's get back to your dad. Why did he go?"

"I – I don't want to talk about that."

"If we're going to help your family, Sarah, like I said – you've got to tell me. There's a real danger that you'll be taken into care, you know that, don't you?" The flash of fear in the girl's eyes told Alex she knew it only too well. "So, you help me and I promise I'll help you."

"What, the filth?"

"Yeah," Shaz chimed in, clearly annoyed. "The filth. What do you think I am, eh? I was a street brat, no exams, I learnt all I know from watching the telly, and they gave me a chance. They're not all pricks – begging your pardon Ma'am."

Sarah looked cautiously impressed. "It was when Pete and Benjy died."

"Pete and Benjy?"

"My big brothers."

Alex froze. Parents who used physical violence, children who weren't regularly fed, a father who had walked out, and now two siblings dead? Human resilience never ceased to amaze and appal her. She blinked, carefully. "Tell us what happened, Sarah."

"They were playing on the line, that's all. Nothing grand like for posh people. Train came along. Squish. Dad was yelling and yelling but they didn't get out of the way." She shrugged. "It happens."

Alex fought to master her horror. She'd seen a train accident – just one – and there wasn't much left afterwards. What was left didn't bear thinking about, and certainly didn't bear much resemblance to the living, breathing human being it had been a few moments before. For a father to have seen his children shredded while he stood by, impotent – she couldn't image the awfulness. There weren't words in the language to express it. Without proper counselling or psychological support – and she had no doubt that there had been none – any family would have struggled but, with a mother probably already on the edge of depression and not enough money to go round, it was no wonder this one had disintegrated as it had. The question was, could she put it back together again?

"How old is little Johnny?"

"A year last September. Why?"

"Just getting a picture of your family, Sarah – what help you and your mum will need." But it was more than that: if the child was that young, then either William and his wife still had some sort of intimate feeling for each other, or… No, she would assume the best, at least for the moment. It gave her hope that she could heal things here.

"How long ago did Pete and Benjy die, Sarah?"

"The fourteenth of May 1978. Mothers' Day."

So, the children had died on a day of celebration. Six months after that the rows had started and six months later William Grey began his job on a building site. "What did your dad do before he worked on the site?"

Sarah looked proud. "He was an architect. He built houses and offices and stuff."

Alex nodded: it explained the girl's good grammar, though her accent was pure Tower Hamlets. William had gone from designing properties to building them in the space of a year, presumably as a direct result of the stress he and his family has suffered, and no-one had realised anything was wrong. No-one had even bothered to find out. She was going to help these people. She was going to make it right for them, no matter what it took. "Do you want your dad to come back and live with you again?"

Sarah looked at her as if she was mad. "What are you on? Course I do – he's my dad!"

"Then I am going to make that happen for you, Sarah. I am going to talk to your mum, and your dad, and to Mr Hunt – no, he'll listen to me – and I am going to get your family the help it needs to stay together. Children and parents should be together, Sarah, and I'm going to make sure you are." It was a bold, perhaps rash, promise – God alone knew what Gene would make of it – but she was determined. She'd seen enough families torn apart for one lifetime, and if she could make a difference here, she would. "You stay here with Shaz and chat about – oh, I don't know – Haircut 100! I'll go and talk to Mr Hunt."

She escaped from the room's intensity with ashamed relief, and leant against the side of the corridor to recover. Too much in this case was wrapped up in fathers and daughters, and she felt herself cracking with the strain, like a wall supporting more than its weight will carry. Neither could she escape a stab of envy; this girl and her father were obviously close, and if Alex got it right they had a future together. A future Tim had forever denied her. Hearing Gene emerging from his own interview room, she turned to look at him, and saw that he and Ray had also discovered the family's terrible story. She pushed herself away from the wall to speak.

"We have to keep this family together. We have to provide them with some proper support. They'll fall apart if we don't."

"They fell apart a long time ago, Bols. The woman can't manage, the man's free with his fists, the kid steals – it's a disaster."

"Sarah's mother has post-natal depression. Her father is a professional who now can't earn enough to keep his family and so she steals food for them. Food from the fag end of market stalls, I might add. And two of her brothers were run down by a train in front of him. They need our help, Gene!"

"Too far gone, Bolly. Nothing short of a miracle's going to bring this family back together."

"So you're just going to throw them on the scrap heap, is that it? How long before that child in there is dead of an overdose in some back alley, because you discarded her family like leftovers? The dregs of human society, eh Gene? Is that all they're worth?" She couldn't believe his attitude – him, whose own family had been destroyed by violence and drugs. Surely he knew that help now was their only chance?

"No, they're a family and I know what families are worth. But listen. If you'll just let me – "

"No, I won't 'just let you'! You're a hypocrite, Hunt, nothing but a hypocrite who can walk away from his past and pretend he hasn't been in that kid's situation! Just because no-one gave you help, just because no-one sorted your dad out, or got your brother clean, doesn't give you the right to pass judgement. Oh go on, Gene, hit me – look – here's my jaw, just for you – come on, take a swing at me! Because you know I'm right. My family was torn apart by jealousy and hate, yours was torn apart by drink and drugs – why can't you be the one to make a difference, just once? Just for them? Isn't 'miracles' what you do, Gene – what the Gene Genie does, make a difference? Don't you walk away from me, Hunt! Don't you – come back here! Ray – get off!"

While she had been shouting, Ray had quietly walked behind her and now held her arms pinned to her sides, gently but firmly, in an almost-embrace. Shaking with rage, she struggled briefly then realised that, slight as he was, she was no match for his well-positioned strength. Slowly, her anger calmed, and the faces that had emerged from the rooms adjoining the corridor disappeared again, leaving her and Ray alone. She wriggled.

"Get off, Ray," she said calmly.

"Not till you promise not to go after him, Ma'am," Ray said evenly.

"He's no right…"

"I don't know what he's going to do, but you're going to leave him alone now, all right?"

Ray's authority was sudden and absolute, and she felt like a naughty little girl. She nodded, and he cautiously loosened his grip, ready to catch her again if needs be. She turned and looked at him defiantly, feeling helpless where she knew she should have felt strong. "There are laws against what you've just done, DS Carling."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Alex felt sudden tears well up, from a variety of causes, not the least of which was injured pride. "My mum and dad…"

"I know, Alex." His tone was unexpectedly gentle, and she caught a glimpse of something indefinable – something that might even be caring – behind his eyes. In a second, it was gone.

"What?"

"The Guv told me. But that doesn't mean you have to hurt him." She stared at him sullenly. "His family – it's not common knowledge. Now you've let everybody know, and that'll have hurt him."

Alex felt mortified, and ashamed. Because Sam knew, she'd just assumed… She wiped the tears fiercely away. "I didn't know. Truly, I didn't know, Ray – I'm sorry."

He nodded. "You'd best apologise to the Guv – but not now. Leave him be. Go home, Ma'am – he'll understand."

"Ray – why are you being so reasonable?"

"Because you were trying to do the right thing. That family should be together. And because you didn't know."

She nodded. The thought of hurting Gene – of embarrassing him in front of his friends and colleagues – added to her misery. She wanted to go and say sorry, right now – she wanted to put a hand on his arm and look into his eyes and – she wanted to hold him to her and shut out all the world's ills, to keep him safe and never let him be hurt again.

She wanted to be allowed to love him.

It wasn't going to happen, she knew. She had given him ample opportunities to declare himself if he felt so inclined, and he hadn't taken any of them. Better this way, of course – better this way so that when she was back in the real world, she had nothing to regret. But all her anger was gone – her moods were mercurial like that – and she could see him now, couldn't she?

A glance at Ray's face told her she couldn't. Ray would face wild horses for Gene, the glorious, embattled dinosaur who inspired astonishing loyalty, limitless devotion. She sighed, and in lieu of the man she really wanted, hugged the man in front of her, before walking quietly out of the station.

It might even be that Ray understood.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_**Warning: major character death**_

_Author's note: The central event of this chapter is based on an incident I saw happen in London over 40 years ago. It may sound impossible, but it's not: I was there! Thanks to leakybiro and Lucida Bright for some hard-nosed beta'ing._

* * *

Gene sauntered towards the CID room. He and Alex had made a tentative peace the previous evening over a few good glasses of red, their friendship too deeply-rooted for a professional disagreement to disrupt it seriously. Wisely perhaps, they hadn't discussed the case: she had apologised and he had nodded and then they had moved on to other things. The mood of the evening had been subdued but pleasant and calm, and Gene had been content.

Now, he was feeling anything but calm. It was approaching lunch time – though the awful weather and lowering clouds made it so dark outside that it seemed like early evening, it was so dark outside – and the day so far had been excellent: he was feeling inordinately pleased with himself, and looking forward to telling Alex what he'd done so that she would be pleased with him too. He had noticed that he was actively seeking out her good opinion and, where once the attitude would have annoyed and irritated him, now he merely accepted it.

He was beginning to enjoy Alex's company for its own sake, and he was beginning not to care.

He was actually whistling when he entered the room, feeling rather light-headed with success. After Alex's impromptu exit the day before, he had tasked himself with thoroughly investigating William Grey's situation, biting his tongue and listening as he thought Alex would have done, watching both Grey and his wife – who had come in with the other children – and chatting to the kids as they played havoc with some of the more esoteric objects in 'Lost and Found'. Arguments had flared and not a few tears had flowed, but Gene had the satisfaction of seeing people who were clearly meant to be together given new hope for their future. He had seen the love they obviously shared, the fear behind their eyes, the regret for all the mistakes that had been made, and had concluded that, with encouragement and a lot of effort, this family might still work. This morning he had given them stern warnings about last chances, firm promises about future support, and the blessing of the Gene Genie, and believed that his words had been taken to heart.

He was like a small, excited boy about to show a treasured piece of work to a favourite teacher, and he smiled indulgently at himself. But then he looked around the room, and the delicious butterflies in his stomach all drooped and died as he realised she wasn't there.

His face must have reflected his disappointment: Shaz looked at him oddly, and he even read concern in her dark eyes. _Pull yourself together, Gene_.

"So where is she?"

"Who?"

"Bollinger-knickers – who else?"

"Er – she said she was going to have a butcher's at the river, Guv."

Gene stopped in his tracks and looked at Chris as a heron might look at a goldfish. "Would you care to elucidate, Christopher, or shall I check in one of your ears and see if I can find any daylight?"

"Twat," said Ray in an undertone. "She got a phone call, Guv. Said something was going down at that building site where Gray took his little girl."

"The one on the Thames," Shaz added, not entirely helpfully.

"What do you mean, 'something was going down'? I've had the family in here all morning." Gene's tone was dangerously soft, and everyone in the room suddenly felt nervous and vulnerable.

Again, Ray spoke for them all. "Builders at the site said they'd heard noises from inside that container. Didn't know what to do about it – they didn't want to go in because it's still taped off."

"They asked if she could go – asked for her by name."

Gene felt his blood run cold. She was out there, near the deep, fast-flowing river, alone and unprotected; and he, who should have been by her side, had known nothing of it. This was worse than his worst fears. She could leave him every day of the week for ever, just as long as she was safe. But this was his Bolly, gone off on her own into danger, just like Sam. He fought to control his breathing. The edges of his vision darkened, and a roaring filled his ears. A world without Alex was a world without purpose, and a world without purpose had no need of a Gene Genie. He needed to move, but couldn't make his legs work. When he spoke, his voice was cat-like and deadly.

"So, you're telling me, DI Drake has gone – on her own – to a potential crime scene, without back-up, without a weapon, without proper intelligence." He paused, and now his words were like gimlets, cutting his listeners to the quick. "Remind you of anyone?"

"I tried to stop her, Guv. I told her to wait for…" Ray trailed off, the colour draining from his face as he realised the implication of Gene's last words. "No – oh no."

"Yes, oh yes, Raymond. Like I said – remind you of anyone?" He was shouting now, his whole body quivering with fury, fear and disbelief. How could they have let her go? How could they have let her go, after what happened to Sam? He found his legs at last, and swept past Ray. "I should have been able to rely on you!"

"Where are you going?"

"I am going to find what is left of Alex Drake."

He slammed out of the office and sprinted down the corridor, hearing footsteps beating behind him as someone followed in his wake. He had never anticipated this, and every nerve in his body felt as if it were strung out taught, like wires at a point beyond breaking. His stomach churned, and he swallowed to stop himself gagging; his terror was so physical that his legs shook with the simple effort of running, and the sweat broke out on his back. His heart and soul screamed within him as his brain rehearsed what might be happening to her. Not what had happened – no, never that. This time he would be there. This time, he would save her.

He barged through the double doors of the police station and ran down the grey concrete steps that edged his world towards the waiting Quattro. If she'd gone on foot, he could make some time up that way; even if she'd taken a car, he'd still drive faster. Every second counted if he was to save her precious life.

As he flung himself in, turning the key even as he slammed the door, he realised that he had company. Ray crashed, apologetic and penitent, onto the front passenger seat – Alex's seat. "Sorry, Guv."

Gene nodded in the curt fashion that betrayed feelings too deep to voice. "Let's go."

The journey took only minutes, but seemed like hours. He was no longer considering his actions or emotions: he knew where he had to be, and to hell with the consequences. Irritated by Ray's presence, he nevertheless recognised its value: it prevented him crying, screaming, cursing all the gods from here to oblivion, and forced him to re-establish some level of self-control. The nausea grew, however, as each moment ticked by. He could not – would not – imagine a life without Alex, not now. Life without Sam had been painful but bearable – life without Alex was a waste of time, and he didn't care about anything or anyone else: nothing could make him endure it. He had already decided on his path when he swung the car around the final corner and screeched to a halt beneath the towering cranes and crazily-angled scaffolding of what would one day become the Thames Barrier.

"Guv." Ray indicated a small crowd gathered by their crime scene tape.

The two men ducked beneath it and looked at the container, looming out of the half-built construction in the river beyond. The afternoon was suddenly very silent: the rain had stopped, but the sky pressed down, a livid, sickly yellow. The chatter of gulls was hushed, and the wind dropped until the waving grass at the edge of the site was stilled in the oppressive, expectant air. Slowly, they approached the open door, but could see nothing in the blackness. It was dark and quiet as a grave. Gene shivered, despite the sunshine. He was scared, but that's what Gene Genies were paid for. He pulled his coat more tightly around him, like some perverse suit of armour, and stepped closer.

"No!" Ray's hand on his arm brought him to a welcome standstill, and for a moment he thought of turning back. Only for a moment, as Ray's insistent voice crowded into his already focussed thoughts. "You know what could happen if you go in there!"

"I know what could happen if I don't."

"Then I'll come with you."

"Not this time. You're a good man, Ray – a good man and a good copper, when you don't worry about what other people think of you." Ray looked puzzled, and Gene wished he could explain. But if Ray couldn't work it out on his own, there would be no point. "If anything happens, it's your team, Raymondo. No – " as Ray shook his head and muttered something " – there comes a tide in the affairs of men, et cetera, et cetera, and this is mine." He paused. "And look after Annie."

"Guv, wait for back-up – Chris was calling when we left. I'm begging you. Gene!"

Gene stared at him, moved and pained by the use of his given name. "I am the back-up, Ray – haven't you worked that out yet?" He gently shook Ray's hand off his arm, but as gently returned the gesture, smiling into the distance. "Good man." Then he turned away and stepped over the lip of the container door, out of the sunshine and into the dark.

* * *

"Alex! Alex!"

From where she lay on the damp floor, a man's urgent voice gradually worked its way into Alex's foggy consciousness. Why, she wondered, would that be?

"Alex! Are you in here?"

_Where else would I be?_ She struggled to sit up and get away from the soggy rags on which she was lying. She put an uncertain hand to her head, and it came away sticky. Shit! She realised she was trembling – or was that the floor itself? Surely she hadn't been – no, that was another world, another life. _Think sensibly, Alex_. This world is mirroring the real one. Or it was mirroring this…

Her vision began to clear and settle, and she saw a tall figure outlined in the dimness, haloed against the dull afternoon. It cautiously began to edge away from the stark rectangle of the doorway and into the gloom. She felt the floor shift again, and this time knew the cause. The shape took another step, and a light flashed cruelly across her eyes. The container lurched.

"Stop!" she shrieked. But no sound came. Screaming now, screaming desperately and silently as the figure staggered with the movement, focussing and magnifying it as the light flew across the space between them and the world tipped violently sideways. She grabbed at the ribbed metal of the walls, and watched in helplessness as the man – clearly a man now – slammed into the other wall with a flat thud.

The impact of his body on the solid metal was the final straw. With a sickening scrape the unstable container slid impossibly slowly down the sandy clay slope made slick by the morning's downpour, and crashed into the swallowing waters of the Thames at high tide. It twisted as it fell, flinging the door shut with an ear-wrenching clang, and Alex's world was catapulted into darkness.

Total, utter and complete darkness. No hint of silver moonlight behind a moving cloud. No distant orange glow from the town in the next valley. No sweep of headlights on the horizon, no hesitant starlight timidly glowing in the black of the sky. Just mind-numbing, disorientating, primeval nothingness, as if the universe had simply winked out in a blink of God's eye.

From where she had slid on those rags – how she blessed them now! – Alex carefully sat up, getting her bearings as the container rocked beneath her. She was floating – that was obvious enough – and she could hear the slap slap of malevolent little waves on the other side of the metal. It was cold. Six inches away were water, light, warmth and air. It might as well be another world.

She closed her eyes, trying to adjust them to take advantage of any light that might have crept in, but when she opened them again, there was nothing. This was it then: a sightless tomb. She felt a sense of deep, unthinking calm, as though all her insides had been painlessly removed. This really was it: she really, finally, was going to die. She thought of Molly, and wanted to panic. She should panic. So why couldn't she feel anything? Shouldn't she care? This was certainly no bang, and hardly even a whimper.

"Oh, bloody hell!"

"Argh!" She jumped, her heart racing with the shock of finding that she wasn't alone. Of course: someone had been here, hadn't they? Someone who had sent the container over the edge and into the Thames. She quieted her breathing, and her chest threatened to burst with the effort. Who was it? Who had known where she was – here or in that other world that seemed a lifetime away now? The knowledge seemed terrible but inevitable: it could only be Arthur Layton. Here, as in that other place, Layton was the instrument of her death.

She stood up slowly so as not to rock her prison, steadying herself against the wall and making no sound. She took a few steps across the ribbed floor, but couldn't get her bearings. Where was he? In the thick darkness, she listened intently, and behind the rhythmic beating of the water she thought she heard breathing. To her left – below her – quite near her. Very near, in fact.

In fact, there was a hand around her ankle.

"Get off me!" She swung out with her right foot, contacting something soft and yielding with a gratifying crunch. "Get off me!"

She heard a sort of sob. "Alex…"

It was Gene. Oh God, it was Gene! "Gene? Gene…" She dropped to her knees, scrabbling about in those cursed rags for the man who had come to rescue her. Finding his soft, fine hair, his tensed shoulders, his hands clinging onto her, sitting him upright, her hands holding him as she would never have dared had she been thinking straight, reaching up to his beloved, invisible face, hand slapped down…

"You just broke my bloody cheekbone!" She heard the gasp of pain.

"Oh Gene – I thought you – I thought it was Layton – Gene…"

"Shut up, Bolly." Reassured by the normality of his rudeness, she did so, and waited. After a few minutes, he drew a deeper, more comfortable breath. "OK – not broken. Not that it makes any difference. Corpses don't need cheekbones."

"Corpses?" She tentatively put out a hand again, found his fingers, and laced them with her own. He did not pull away.

"You and me, Bolly. Corpses, in a floating tomb."

"Oh don't be ridiculous." But in the following silence, she knew the melodrama was true. Not that she was going to acknowledge the fact – not to him and not to herself. "We've been here before – don't tell me Ray's not out there now, alerting the river police, organising a rescue."

"Wish I could. He's got to catch us first. Where the hell do you think we are?"

"Well, we were at the Thames Barrier, so – "

"It was a rhetorical question. I'll tell you where we are: floating in a sealed container with a very limited air supply on a river where the tide has just turned and is now flowing out. Out, Bols – towards the sea. Or, to put it more succinctly, we are literally up shit creek without the proverbial paddle."

"But they'll see us. They can't miss us."

"Do you know how low in the water these things float? You've got a couple of inches showing, if that – they're virtually invisible."

Alex did not reply: she couldn't quite take in the implications of what he might be saying. "It was a dog."

"What?"

She laughed, hysterical with the shock of her injury and the relief of his presence. "It was a bloody dog in here – we hadn't secured the area, can you believe that? They heard a movement, called me in because I was the one whose name they remembered, and it was a dog."

"So why didn't you just come out?"

"It was a big dog – Great Dane, German Shepherd. It was terrified. It knocked me down as it went for the door – I must have hit my head, yes – ouch!" She found the sore spot.

"Here, let me have a look."

"I assume you mean 'have a feel'?"

"Bolly, I've been waiting months for you to make me an offer like that." There was a moment's pause, and then both laughed nervously. It occurred briefly to Alex that in here nothing mattered any more: no morality, no limits, no consequences. No tomorrows. "Just a cut," Gene said, his fingers light on her scalp as he explored the wound. "Needs a couple of stitches."

"I'll make sure I get them. How's – er – how's yours?" She raised her free hand and moved it slowly until she made contact with where she calculated his face should be. Her fingers met his lips, soft and moist, and she felt rather than heard his intake of breath. She had intended to move to touch his poor cheek, but her heart was beating so fast with the beauty of the texture of him that she left her fingers on his mouth a second longer than necessary. As she trembled, she felt his lips part, and his head dipped very slightly; he took her finger tips into his mouth and run his tongue lightly across them. Her stomach burst into responding flame.

Oh God, how she wanted him. And did this mean he wanted her too?

Gene had taken hold of her hand now, keeping it still so he could explore each of her fingers, taking them deep into his warm, soft mouth, one by one. He lifted his head, and she could almost see him looking at her.

"Why?"

"We're going to die here." His voice was that of a man who had given up and, dazed as she was, she didn't think to question him.

He settled himself against the wall, and gently pulled her around until she sat next to him. Just like before… Oh why hadn't she taken him when she'd had the chance? The agony of loss shot through her, far more painful than Layton's bullet.

"And that makes it wrong, how?"

"I don't know. I suppose…" she trailed off, thinking of her silly fireside fantasy. "I wanted it to be different. To be special."

"It's you and me, Bolly. Of course it's special."

She felt his arm around her, pulling her in, strong and protective. And she knew he would keep her safe, no matter what happened. There were so many different sorts of safety. Her trust in him was absolute.

She dropped her hand from his face, gently opening two of the buttons on his shirt, his tie falling over her arm like a benediction. Sliding beneath the cotton, she found open, naked skin.

"No vest," she whispered.

"No vest," he echoed.

She moved her fingers across his chest, savouring the downy covering of hair, and buried her head in his shoulder, drinking in the sweet, damp scent of him as he held her close. After a while, her hand drifted downwards.

"Well," he whispered, as she welcomed the coolness of his fingers in their turn, "when they find us, at least we'll be smiling."

* * *

"We can survive in here for several hours," Alex murmured, some time later. Gene had crawled uncomfortably around the floor and found his torch which, thanks to its solid police-engineered housing, was undamaged, and they had been able to see the size of the container. "The air will start to get stale, but they'll have time to come and find us. We should be all right if we don't do anything."

Gene twisted to look at her, perched on her pile of rags. Her face was flushed, her clothes pulled around her rather than fastened, her expression carrying the languor of recent exertion. "Well that's cut down our chances of survival then," he said mischievously, glancing at her déshabillé. He kept his face straight. "Fun though."

She smiled weakly, and he realised that her injury must be more serious than he'd thought. Never mind the temptations of the flesh: he had to look after her. For as long as they had left, he had to look after her. She was his inspiration, his life – his nemesis, as it turned out – and he would stay by her side for ever. He leaned over, trying to make her more comfortable, and as his hand supported him, he felt a new sensation: inch-deep cold water. Flashing the light around them, he saw that Alex's estimate of a few hours was far too generous. The container was leaking: never intended to be watertight, the Thames was seeping determinedly through its cracks, and only the pressure of the air trapped with them was preventing it gushing in.

They weren't going to die of asphyxiation: they were going to drown.

"Right, Bolly-knickers," he said, "let's get comfortable and wait for our rescuers, eh?"

She looked at him in lazy confusion. "You said no-one would come."

"Well, that wasn't quite true, was it?" She didn't get the joke, and he saw that she was on the edge of unconsciousness. He had hoped – perversely for someone who claimed to love her – that they might go together, taking comfort from each other's touch until the last, but that clearly wasn't going to happen. If he was unable to hold her as they left life together, then he would ease her journey out of it and then guard her while he waited for his own. "Here – have a drink."

She reached out for the flask and gulped down a large measure of the stinging liquid. "Gene – I would have – I mean I don't – you know I love you, don't you?"

"Quite right, too." He took a drink from the flask himself, welcoming the fire that warmed his belly and numbed his brain. "Whatever will Ray think?"

That made her smile. "Ray's all right."

"Can I have that in writing?"

"Mmm. I'm cold."

"I'm not. Here – let's get this round you." He shrugged off his heavy coat: at least it was mostly dry, which was more than could be said now for the rags that surrounded them, becoming rapidly sodden as the creeping, deadly invasion continued. "Come on, sit here – like that – that's it… Blimey! For a thin bird, Bols, you don't half weigh a lot." He manoeuvred her until she was sitting on his lap, safe for a little longer from the rising tide.

A wave of bitterness and desperation washed over him: if only he had acted on his feelings earlier, she might have been sitting with him like this up in her flat, a warm, welcoming bed waiting for them, wine on the table and coffee on the hob. He would have a night of pleasure and passion to look forward to, instead of a few short hours of shivering cold, followed by the longest cold of all. He had kept his distance from her, trying to protect her, and the irony was that she was going to die anyway.

Holding her secure in the circle of his arms, he felt her snuggle down into him, and bent to kiss her hair, which was beginning to straighten in the damp atmosphere. He drew a deep breath through the brunette mass, and the sensation filled him like wine. He felt his own futile physical response, and a deep sadness flowed through him as he realised the impossibility now of ever fulfilling his dreams. Damn it – if he wasn't careful he would start to cry.

Suddenly the container resounded with an impossibly loud noise and, deep in the water as they must have been, he felt them swing round with the power of an impact. Of course – there were docks and piers and all sorts of obstructions along the Thames – it was a working river, after all. They must have hit one – God, had it made a hole? He snatched the torch, frantically waving it around the dank walls until he found a large dent on the opposite side, high up – they had hit something at speed, certainly, but no real damage had been done. This time. This wasn't one of those giant forty-footers that could withstand anything: this was a fifteen-foot paper bag, and the river would hardly have to breathe on it to destroy it.

But his heart had leapt up, in spite of his pragmatism: perhaps they would snag on something, and Ray – who surely _was_ trying to reach them somehow – would find them and get them out. Perhaps this wasn't the end. Perhaps he would get that night of passion…

It was cold – very cold now, and he was beginning to hear the lapping noises of the water inside the container. His legs were already damp, and it wouldn't be long before it reached Alex. He shivered, bone-weary in nothing but a suit and shirt, and drew the flask out again. "Time for another swig, Bols."

She looked up at him, eyes half-closed, and reached up her face for a kiss. He let his lips brush hers, absorbing their warmth, then tightened his arms to bring her closer and opened his mouth in an embrace that held all the love that welled up in him for this wonderful, crazy woman. Their lips crushed each other in glorious, bruising pain, and as his tongue tentatively reached out, she met it with her own, gently exploring him and letting him explore her, the taste and texture and slick, sweet wetness of her. He became fiercer, more urgent, sinking into her and demanding that she open to him, that she answer him, stroke for stroke, tongue for tongue, moan for moan. He sucked up the sensation of her, and gave himself completely, his hands in the thickness of her hair and his stomach alive with liquid fire.

Eventually, he broke away, trembling from head to foot with passion, desire and grief. "Alex…" He pulled her even closer. "I love you, too." Now he was crying; he couldn't help himself, and the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. "I love you too." He struggled to control his ragged breathing, and slipped the flask to her slightly swollen lips. "Drink."

She drank greedily, and he knew she would soon slip into blessed oblivion. It was the last thing he could so for her, and he would do it well. Refraining from drinking himself, he rocked her as best he could until her breathing calmed, and she relaxed against him like a child. Like the child, in fact – was it so crazy to think she might be the child? He shook his head. The air must be getting bad: his mind was beginning to wander.

As the water rose, all such complex thoughts faded from his mind. Alex was asleep at last: he could only hope she stayed asleep now, right to the end. She would die in the arms of the man who loved her, who should have saved her but still, who loved her, and he would keep her above the water for as long as he could. The container had snagged on two further obstructions, and at each his hopes had rekindled, but nothing had come of it, and he was resigned to death. Half standing, half-leaning against the chill metal wall, he knew the really hard part would be keeping Alex's head above the surface when the water got too deep to stand in, but he was going to do it. If there was anything after this – and he was convinced deep in his soul that Gene Genies didn't simply go out like lights, but always surfaced elsewhere – he wanted to be able to look himself in the eye and know that he had done all he could.

He felt himself slipping into welcome drowsiness, and jerked his head up in fear as his face met the water. He was soaking, freezing, choking, but he had to stay conscious. He had to keep Alex's head up: until both of them had taken their final liquid breath, rescue was always possible. As if in answer, another ghastly squeal signalled that they had hit something else, but this time the container did not spin around, dented but unbreached. This time, the side of it was torn away like a lid wrenched from a tin can, and the roof peeled like the head being torn off an animal, letting the violent daylight crash in and punch him with all its force and power. The container tipped, and the shock of the impact snatched Alex from his arms. He saw her eyes fly open, her limbs flail, and he was sucked viciously away, desperately reaching out in a final, useless gesture as something hard slammed into the back of his head and his vision vanished in a greyness of thick, suffocating fog.

If the sun was warm on his back as he rose to the surface, he did not feel it. If indeed he rose to the surface, no-one ever found him. The Gene Genie had gone, and the waters of the Thames swallowed him like a healing wound, untroubled and indifferent, forever withholding their secrets from prying, mortal eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

The hand that took hers was large and masculine, though unusually soft and slender-fingered. It didn't try to draw her away, or lead her anywhere, but simply held on until her fears had calmed. It was warm, and safe, and good. She returned its gentle pressure and opened her eyes.

"Hello again. Sleep well?"

She blinked in the soft light, and looked into Evan's eyes. "Hello."

"Good sleep?"

"Mmm." She looked around her at the tastefully pastel room, the soft white sheets, the ambient lighting. Thank God for private health insurance. "Didn't you go home last night?"

Evan shook his head, and nodded to where Molly sat in a scrumpled, dozing heap on the corner chair. "She wouldn't leave you, not till we knew you would be OK."

"Oh… You should have made her go."

"Made her? She's your daughter, Alex – how could I have made her? Anyway, she was far too excited after our celebrations."

Alex smiled. Dear Evan – amidst everything else, he had produced, like a rabbit out of a hat, a fairy cake with three small candles in honour of the day: she had got to see Molly blow out her birthday candles after all. It was surreal, but she was determined to hold on to her sanity, determined not to start screaming, because if she did, she knew she would never stop.

Gene – her beloved Gene, the Gene Genie whose touch was magic and whose words were stardust – was dead.

Control – control her breathing, control her tears, control for ever. Never again to be in that overbearing, all-consuming, commanding presence. Never to smell that heady mixture of tobacco smoke, malt whisky and sweet, living sweat… Think about something practical, something down to earth. Think about anything except the most important thing ever.

"It was – yesterday."

Evan nodded. "Do you – do you want to talk about it?" he asked hesitantly.

"I don't know."

"You were lucky, you know." Her eyebrows went up: it would not have been how she defined luck. "The man who took you hostage – "

"Arthur Layton." She shivered. He had done so much.

" – yes, Arthur Layton – he was on the phone, and they traced the call."

Alex's brain caught light, making connection after connection, dominoes falling into place, a picture being completed. "I knew it was you."

"You knew it was me what?"

"You – that Layton called."

"Why would he call me?"

"To – " this was hardly the time or place, she knew, but it had to be said some time. "To blackmail you because of mum and dad."

Evan's face became chalk white. She'd read about such a reaction, but never seen it. It seemed as if he was suddenly bloodless, and she instantly regretted her words. She carried the responsibility for everyone's welfare in her hands: she couldn't hurt Evan, who had given up his life – his hopes of excitement, freedom, travel – to nurture her own. Her mind raced, and as if in answer to a prayer, Gene's half-remembered words tumbled into her consciousness. _The Prices' legal team released Layton from custody this morning._ A half-smile flittered across her face. Bless you, Gene, she said, almost out loud.

"What?"

He was still pale. "You arranged for Layton to be freed, didn't you? I know he killed my parents, Evan – I've been doing some digging – I should have told you, but…"

"Oh Alex, you should have left it alone."

"I know, but I wanted you to know – I didn't want you to blame yourself." The colour was creeping back into his cheeks now, and she didn't regret the lie. He was wrong to have indulged in his affair with Caroline, but that didn't make Tim's actions an appropriate response. "So who was the call to?"

"What call?"

"The phone call I heard Layton make. I heard him say 'a piece of your past' – I thought he meant you."

Evan shook his head, and then the light of understanding dawned in his eyes. "No – it was someone from Special Branch who's been watching him. I think. They used – whatever it is they use – to trace the call and got to you in minutes. But I wasn't really listening – sorry."

"So where were you? How did you know?"

"They called me. They knew who you were, of course. God, Alex – you were so lucky not to have been more seriously hurt."

That was just one of the many things she was having trouble adjusting to: that Layton's bullet had grazed her skull, not penetrated her brain. No wonder she had received none of Sam's strange medical 'messages'. She had been unconscious for only a few hours. Evan was right: she was lucky.

But in those few hours – those few months – she had learnt who she was, uncovered secrets meant always to be hidden, seen her parents die again, and fallen in love. And nothing would ever be the same.

"So how did I – who got me out?"

"I don't know – like I said, Molly and I weren't there. The people who were watching Layton, I imagine." He became decisive. "I do know it was just before eleven o'clock, because when they phoned me I could hear Big Ben in the background."

It was all so confusing. She would have to let it settle into place, and then maybe she could make some sense of it. But however much she let it settle, however long she waited, the fact of Gene's death would remain. Like a wine stain on a carpet, or ink dropped into water, it might dim and fade, but it would never disappear. It would always be there, poisoning her life with its needlessness and irreversibility. And there was no escape for her, as there had been for Sam: Molly's need would keep her here, a willing but suffering prisoner, her whole life. Why couldn't whoever had carried her out of that boat have left her there to die?

She glanced across at Molly: tough, innocent and safe. No, it didn't matter what pain it cost her – she would never put her daughter through her own parentless experience. She was strong enough. She would be strong enough. If only she could have imagined, in her aloneness, that Gene was happy elsewhere. Evan followed her gaze and smiled.

"Thank you, for looking after her."

"No thanks required, Alex. You know that."

Alex smiled wearily. "Yes, I know that, but all the same… At least I knew she was safe." Evan looked puzzled. Well, Alex thought, she had to tell him something. "I had – dreams – while I was unconscious. Vivid, powerful dreams. The only thing that kept me holding on was the thought that Molly was safe, with you." Not the only thing, she added to herself. But there was no need to share that with him: no need, in fact, to share it with anyone. She couldn't do what Sam had done: bare her soul to a professional stranger, record her deepest feelings for someone else's research. Too late, she had realised what Gene had meant to her: too late to enjoy him as a lover as well as a friend. She had always known she would have to leave him, but she was not going to make him public property.

Evan smiled uncertainly. It struck her that Evan did a lot of things uncertainly with her, for someone who was so hard-nosed in court. "What sort of dreams?"

"You were in them."

"I was?"

"Was I?" Molly piped up from the corner, half-woken by their quiet conversation.

"Oh yes, darling," Alex smiled. "You most definitely were." Molly subsided again, satisfied.

Alex looked into the middle distance. How much to tell him? How much to hold back? Gene had agreed that little Alex should never know about her parents so, for him, she would keep the secret. Gene's legacy would be Evan's peace of mind. "I dreamt about Mum and Dad, and about you, and about – I imagined I knew you all, but as an adult. It was strange."

"I bet it was. What happened?"

"I helped Caroline – Mum – in some of her work. You too. Dad was away. I dreamt about the royal wedding – remember that? You and Caroline…" She trailed off, overcome by the memories.

Not memories, she told herself sternly. Not memories, imaginings. But they seemed so very much like memories to her. The memory of Gene's arms around her; the memory of the softness of his hands on her face, his lips against her hair, his beautiful words whispered into the cold, wet darkness. They were memories, real memories, and she would carry them with her, precious and unique, to her grave.

She closed her eyes, feeling again the rough, scratchy comfort of his coat as she lay cradled within it. Twice in her life she had been on the edge of horror, and both times he had been there, holding her within that rich woollen warmth and keeping her safe. Could that be coincidence? She had asked him, the first time, how he had come to be there. What had he said – that he was wherever he was needed? She had needed him again as she died in that other world, and there he had been. To sacrifice himself, for her. She sighed, the simple breath masking a soul-deep grief. Could Gene have escaped?

The question taunted her with its impossible possibilities. She had seen the container torn open, heard the thrum of water as the pressure changed: but she had also seen the fair hair, dark with water, floating and stroked by the suddenly-lit current, the sea-blue eyes hidden behind closed lids, the limbs splayed in obscene rest. How could he be alive?

Evan brought her thoughts back. "Me and Caroline?" He looked so innocent – so disingenuous – that she was suddenly angry. Why should he survive when Gene had not? She gasped, appalled at the thought.

"You – seemed very close." She ignored Evan's obvious discomfiture, and ploughed on. "It must have been a relief to her, to have you there when Tim – I mean Dad – was away."

"It sounds very vivid, this dream."

"It was. It was so real, Evan. And so logical." She looked at him, this man who had caused the death of her parents… Tim had killed his family because he could not bear to think that his wife might leave him. But she wasn't going to leave him, was she? The affair was over, and Tim had never found out. Had he? That half-heard conversation when she and Ray had gone to plant drugs in their house – that could have meant anything. Caroline had taken such trouble to keep her secret. The tape could have been ambiguous, despite what had seemed obvious when they watched it. So why… Caroline had talked of taking a sabbatical, Tim was driving them to a station – so was Caroline leaving after all? Even if just for a few weeks or months, taking Tim's little girl away to show her the world? Was that why he had done it – because Alex had persuaded her mother that she needed to spend more time with her daughter? She stared at the man before her with confused, scared eyes. Did that mean it was her fault?

"It's over now, though. It's over now, Alex."

"Yes – it's over." No more misogynistic, deep-hearted Ray, no more not nervous but cautious Chris, no more secretly-intelligent Shaz. And Gene. Beautiful, infuriating, magnetic, so-full-of-life Gene. Would that world continue without her? Was something altogether larger, more mysterious, happening here? Were Ray and the others somewhere at this moment, dragging the container onto dry land, mourning their captain, blaming her? She remembered it now – remembered floating free – perhaps Gene had gone too? Perhaps the container would be empty, and no bodies would ever be found. Perhaps CID would never know what had happened. Just like Sam…

Just like Sam. For a ghastly moment, she understood with razor-like clarity why Sam had taken that leap from the top of the Manchester Police building. A burning desire to know, a desperate need to return to that so-real world. And the shock of another idea hit her like a physical blow: that Tim's action had been nothing to do with Evan, nothing to do with her, but a simple, misguided desire to keep his family safe and whole. If they were dead, nothing could hurt them. If they were dead, they would be together for ever. He was trying to protect them. With Arthur Layton's twisted help, perhaps Tim was trying to do the right thing.

"It's over." She smiled weakly, seeing the immediate relief that sprang into Evan's eyes. How much she wanted to tell him: how little she could ever share. Now, she would always have a secret, even from Molly; her love for Gene would have to remain locked up inside her. She would never reveal it. She would live out her life here in exile, surrounded by most but not all those she loved, forever separated from the man she had been born to walk through life with. Her beloved, lost Gene. "Gene…" she whispered.

"Who's Jean? You were calling out her name on and off for hours before you woke up. Was it someone you were dreaming about?"

"Yes."

"Well, you can leave her behind now. Like I said – it's over." He reached out and patted her hand, and she knew he was trying to reassure her. His words cut her to the quick. She truly had left Gene behind. Twenty seven years behind. She closed her eyes: she couldn't talk about this any more.

* * *

The next two days spun by in a blur of tests, sleep, polite meaningless words and gut-wrenching misery. Alex knew she would not be allowed to leave if she appeared depressed, and amazed the doctors with her apparent powers of recovery and optimism. Gene would have seen through the act in a second: but Gene wasn't there.

She just wanted to be alone, to grieve.

"When can I go home?" Evan had spent almost every waking hour at her bedside, and was there again now, though he had persuaded Molly, finally, to go back to school.

"Tomorrow. And – er – not exactly home, Alex."

"What?"

"There's a policeman outside." Her eyes flew to the door, irrational hope blossoming like an explosion. And dying like the deadly fallout as she saw the stranger's profile.

"Why?"

"Maybe they think you're still in danger, or they want you in witness protection – I'm not sure." Alex marvelled. The old Evan would have been out there, questioning and probing, finding out exactly what was going on and demanding explanations or exits. Old age touched them all, she realised. Except Gene. He had grown no older since Sam, and now he never would. Age would not wither him… She shook her head.

"So why does that mean I can't go home?"

"You can go home, just not alone. They want to give you a minder for a couple of days."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Wrong with me?"

"Why can't you and Molls be my minders?"

"Oh. If you're in danger, Alex, you'll be in better hands with them than with me."

"I don't like it."

"Trust me?"

"That's not fair!" But she knew that, short of going on the run – a truly ridiculous notion – if the powers that be had decided thus, she had little choice in the matter. She was puzzled, though, by the lack of fire in Evan, and it was only later that she realised that he hadn't had fire in him for years – that she had been granted a glimpse of him in his prime, and it was the young – no, the old – Evan that she now thought of as real.

His fire had died with Caroline: she was not the only one who had suffered unimaginable loss. She smiled at him, for the first time since her return feeling sorry for someone other than herself.

Life had to go on.

* * *

The morning sunlight was strong and unforgiving as she walked out of the hospital on Evan's arm. Even with her dark glasses – rather more stylish than the last pair she'd worn – the brightness was powerful enough to make her eyes water, and she looked down as they walked. She didn't look up until they'd reached the car, parked a discreet distance from the main entrance, but still in that full relentless glare. Listlessly, she allowed Evan to hand her into the passenger seat, helped by the driver, tall and solid – well, she thought, if he was a bodyguard he'd have to be, wouldn't he?

As she sat and waited for him to join her, she listened to the two men's muffled conversation through the half-open window. Evan was asking tetchily how long she would need this level of protection. Dear Evan, she thought again – even now, even after all these years and with the fire dead within him, still nipping at the establishment's ankles, keeping them on their toes.

"Only until we're sure none of Layton's associates feel a pressing need to finish her off," came the reply. "He's a piece of pond life, and they might try to do it out of spite."

"So you can't tell me when things will be back to normal, then."

"Not long – a few days. I'll keep her safe, Evan."

It struck her as an odd thing to say. But perhaps this was one of Evan's chums from the old days; the remark seemed to satisfy him, and he left soon afterwards, cheerily calling his goodbyes and promising to look after Molly for as long as was necessary. She sighed. She just wanted to go home…

Her – bodyguard, how silly was that? – looked in and, apparently surprised that she had not yet put on her seat belt, pulled it free and leaned into the car to press it home. He didn't speak – she guessed these people didn't unless they had to – but as he stretched across her, she caught a peculiar, bitter aroma of cigar smoke and whisky: an aroma so familiar and so painful that she couldn't stop a little howl of anguish escaping. The man froze, and she was able to focus on the dark coat he was wearing – even on this warm day. Instinctively, she put up a hand to touch the fabric, and found herself stroking the arm of this complete stranger as if it belonged to someone she knew.

As soon as she realised what she was doing, she snatched her hand away as if the coat had been on fire. How incredibly stupid! How pathetically, utterly embarrassing! This man – what on earth must he think? He must reckon he had a madwoman on his hands. She felt her face burn, and the tears she had only just begun to control burst free again, angry, hot and painful.

"I – I'm so sorry," she stammered, not looking at him in her shame. "You – reminded me of – oh God… I'm sorry…"

The man pushed the clip home, and as he withdrew, she wasn't entirely sure that his lips didn't brush her hair. She opened her mouth to protest, indignant, and then heard him speak.

"Belt up, Bolly."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"This is a nightmare! I don't think I can cope."

"_You_ can't cope? What about me?"

"You're used to it! I can't get my head round it all, Mr Hunt – Gene – and I know you haven't told me the half of it. How the hell do I make sure I don't make a mistake?"

Gene sighed. Evan was an intelligent man, but a bit of an old woman as well. He hissed into the telephone, mindful of the fact that Alex was upstairs; he didn't want her flying down and taking over the conversation. "Just look after Molly, Evan – you didn't make any mistakes with Alex, did you?"

"How do I know?" The anguish in the man's voice was palpable, and Gene felt for him. Not everyone had the confidence and abilities of the Gene Genie.

"Trust me, Evan."

"I don't have much choice, do I?"

_No_, Gene thought. _Neither did I_.

He had explored the tortuous windings of what had happened 'then', how he and Alex had escaped to 'now' and, indeed, what 'now' actually was, and whether it was the same as 'then' or followed it, or was completely separate from it, or... He'd thought his way into a maze, but was nowhere near thinking his way out again, and he shook his head, wanting to clear it, but only succeeded in muddling it further. Those small ideas that taunted him from the edge of his consciousness stuck their collective tongues out, and he knew if he looked them square in their gremlin-like faces, they would disappear. He also knew they held the answer, and that they would never share it.

He considered his own history here, and was strangely unable to focus on anything concrete. It was all there, in his past – or someone's past – but he couldn't get hold of it. Where were the photographs, the letters, the memories of friends, lovers, colleagues? When he'd moved down from Manchester, had he left everything behind? And yet this was where he was supposed to be: wherever Alex was, that was where he was supposed to be.

He shivered, and wondered what unknown compromises might have been made, by him or by others, for things to have happened as they had. He would have bent all the rules of the universe to get Alex to a place where she was happy and in the company of those she loved, but it scared him that this reality might not last. If Alex made a new life for herself here, safe with him and Molly, and it all turned out to be an insubstantial dream, what would that do to her?

And what the hell was 'real', anyway?

He remembered that he was supposed to be having a conversation. "Stop whingeing, man. This is for Alex – our Alex. Is that good enough?"

He heard the sigh of resignation. "You know it is. Just keep me in the loop, OK?"

"I will. Oh…" A noise crashed in from behind him.

"What is it?"

The telephone was snatched from Gene's hand. "Evan? Is that you?"

"Alex! What's wrong?" Evan's voice was tinny as the handset moved towards Alex's furious ear, and Gene heard the rest of the conversation as a surreal one-sided ping-pong.

"Wrong?" she shouted into the mouthpiece, and Gene winced. "I'm trapped with a man I saw die twenty-seven years ago, that's what's wrong!

"No, I wasn't dreaming, it was too real! Yes, look, I know it wasn't really real – but it was, as well. I saw a man die and he's standing here, right in front of me!

"I don't know – no, I didn't know him before. I'd never seen him in my life! He's Sam Tyler's construct…

"Oh for heaven's sake don't be dim, Evan.

"Don't contradict me – this is _not_ Gene Hunt. No, I didn't say it was! Now I want to speak to Molly.

"What do you mean, she's at school?

"Oh. Well I can come and get her, can't I? I – I need to know she's safe, Evan.

"Will you? The headmaster won't mind – he knows you. Take her for lunch. I'll come too!

"No-one's going to try and kill me! And I don't need to rest – I'm fine. And I certainly don't want to be here, with – with him."

"Yes, all right – I'll stay! For God's sake…" She slammed the phone down before poor Evan could reply, and stood glaring at the 'dead' man, before disappearing up the stairs again.

Gene looked at the space where she had been with a heavy heart. He was here, in Alex's world with her, and they were supposed to be happy. So why hadn't it worked?

* * *

Two hours earlier, as he had waited outside the hospital, his heart had been anything but heavy: it had been apprehensive, but buoyant and ecstatic. For all the vitriol he had directed at them in the past, he was enjoying the irony of being a member of Special Branch, and ensuring that he was detailed to nursemaid DI Drake after the attempt on her life was easy: he had, after all, supervised the surveillance of Arthur Layton, and was the natural person to see the operation through. His heart beat with a thick urgency as he anticipated her shock, her bewilderment, and her joy.

What he hadn't anticipated was her terror.

She had stared at him, uncomprehendingly wide-eyed, as they drove through London to her house, a restored terrace in one of the city's leafier squares, far from the sound and scent of the powerful, swelling river. It wasn't a long journey, and she still hadn't found her tongue by the time they arrived. He helped her up the steps, feeling the living warmth beneath her jacket, and could hardly control the urge to crush her to him and never, ever let her go. Trembling, he turned the key in the lock – dropping it once in his emotion – and they went into the long, cool hall, tastefully decorated with plants and modern art prints – just what he would have expected.

Still, she said nothing, watching him with those enormous eyes as if he were an alien who might at any moment transform into something venomous and deadly, when all he wanted was to scoop her up in his arms. Instead, he guided her to the sitting room, not quite tidy in the way that all homes containing children are not quite tidy, and sat her down on the sofa, as he had so often done in the flat above Luigi's.

But this time there was no cheery banter, no welcoming bottle of wine, no conversational sparks. This time there was only fear. She had looked at him with terrified, almost vacant eyes, then fled to her room and locked herself in.

* * *

After Evan's call, he waited three long hours before he heard the key turn. He was sitting down and trying to appear non-threatening, but his physical presence was imposing, and he'd had very little practise at being insignificant. She scurried to the bathroom, and he waited to hear her scurry back, but to his relief she took a few tentative steps downstairs, until she could just see him through the banisters. He smiled as gently as he knew how and, apparently encouraged, she came further.

She was like a nervous animal in a strange new home, unaware that its occupant already loves the very bones of it. It would take time. He hoped it would only take time. If only he knew the switch that would fill her mind with light and bring them together again.

She crept into the sitting room and sat on the sofa, as far from him as she could. He had put biscuits on the coffee table, and she snatched some from the plate, nibbling at them like a squirrel with an uncertain nut. For a long while she stared at the floor, then he saw her take a deep breath, as though steeling herself for an experience that was not welcome, but had to be faced. She met his eyes at last. "Who are you?"

It was not the question he had expected, and he didn't reply as carefully as he might have done. "Who do you think I am, you daft tart? I'm the Gene Genie!"

She shook her head, and he found he missed the unruly curls that had so annoyed him in another life. "No – no you're not. I saw you – oh God – I saw you – _die_." She began to shake, and the tears stood out in her eyes, reaction kicking in. He moved towards her, ready to offer comfort, friendship, love – whatever she needed, he would give it – but she shrank away. Almost imperceptibly, but the instinct was there. Then she stopped herself, and he realised she was trying to be brave. To be brave – with him! Who loved her better than his own flesh. Who had waited twenty-seven years for her to come back to him…

"Alex." Something in his voice must have touched her, because her expression softened slightly, but her stance remained unchanged. "You died, Gene," she whispered. "You kissed me, and you held me – and then you died. I saw you pulled out by the current – I saw you! You were dead."

He'd known it would be difficult to square one reality with another, though Alex had made a pretty good job of it before. Even Sam, once he'd made up his mind where he wanted to be, had adapted remarkably well.

But how could both lives be real: how could 1981 and 2008 coexist? How could any of this be reconciled except inside his head? And if that was true – if there was any such thing as truth – did that mean that this reality was a fiction and that somewhere, out there, a little girl was still crying for her mother in the dark? And what of the others caught up in these events? Layton certainly knew more than he should have done. Why else had he called Gene: how else had he connected Alex with Gene's carefully constructed past, the past he knew existed but could hardly recall? If Gene had waited twenty-seven years, how long had Layton waited? He shivered: he knew so much, but there was so much more he didn't know. He almost wished he knew nothing at all.

"Obviously not, Bolly." She flinched at the name, and his heart shrank. He'd seen the flash of joy when she looked at him for the first time: he knew she wanted him to be alive. But then he'd seen common sense, that enemy of dreams, creep insidiously in, and the joy had been replaced by this uncomprehending terror. She just needed to accept that there were more things in heaven and earth than anyone had ever imagined, and take the gift of this time, this place, for her own.

"I was in a shipping container," she said slowly, and he could see she was trying to reason through her fears. Which was all very well, as long as reason didn't take her too far. "I was in a shipping container, with – with someone who looked like you…" She licked her lips, and he felt the inappropriateness of his impulse to kiss them.

"It was me."

"No," she held up a hand. "No, someone who looked like you, and the container was sealed, and there was water coming in." She spoke slowly. "We – we…" She turned pink, and Gene felt himself flushing as he also remembered the comfort they had drawn from each other. "We didn't." She said it flatly, daring him to reply.

He wouldn't contradict her. "I'm not dead, Alex. Look – " He reached out a hand to her. "Touch me – I'm warm, alive – I'm here, Bols, with you."

She began to breathe more raggedly. "He is. I don't know who you are. I saw – I…" And then, without warning, she started to scream. Just as she had screamed for Tim and Caroline all those years – months? – ago, so now she screamed for him, for the love and the loss and the heartache they shared. Her desolation was like sandpaper on dry skin.

He held her – he had to hold her. This time, he was there for her alone.

He hoped she might cry herself out, but her grief was too deep and raw and awful for that. She fought him at first, all arms and legs and uncontrolled resistance, but gradually calmed as he continued to cradle her like a father with his child – like the father she should have had. As she stilled, he suspected her composure was that of prey frozen at the sight of a predator, and kept her firmly in his grasp until he was sure she wouldn't bolt again. Finally loosening his gentle grip, he stroked the rebel strands of damp, angry hair away from her pale, drawn face with infinite care.

"You're not him. You could never be him! He was…" She gulped and the hot tears came again, but this time they did not tear her apart like before. "He was unique, beautiful – unreconstructed and wonderful." Her voice became infinitely vague: infinitely sad. "He was the world."

His heart thrilled at her words. He wanted ask, _Did you love him?_ She had told him so, but he wanted to hear the words again. But it would have been unfair. "What would convince you? That it's me?"

"I saw him die," she repeated, and her voice was flat, and empty.

"I could say the same about you."

"What?"

"When that container was ripped open, I was the one sucked out. You were still inside, last I saw you. Cut head, full of booze – but I think you're alive, Bolly. Why can't you do the same for me?"

"Tell me something only Gene would know."

Quick as a flash, he came back. "You're a D-cup."

"Huh! That would be your fantasy, then, would it?. Why would I want to remember that?"

"This isn't a fantasy – it's real. As real as – "

"1973? 1981?" Alex chipped in. "But 1973 was real enough for Sam to kill himself for it."

Gene was confused – as he'd known he would be in this brave new world. These things took some adjusting to, even for him. "Sam died last year," he said shortly, not realising that she didn't contradict him because, for her, this was also true. "No, I mean – Sam died in 1980." He went quiet, for a moment forgetting about the living woman in his arms as he was overwhelmed by thoughts about the dead man beyond any reach. The shock of realisation was as great as anything Alex had suffered: that Sam had been dead – missing – no, _dead_ – for twenty-eight years. That for twenty-eight bleak, sunless years, Sam had been out of the world. After a year, there was still a chance – the thread that held time together might stretch that far, and Sam might find his way along it, back to Gene. But twenty-eight years was a wilderness, a desert – the thread would have snapped long ago, and the world no longer held a place for him to fill, as it had for months after his death, when his impression still lingered in the fabric of life around them. This world really was new.

Still holding the woman he was supposed to be comforting, Gene began to weep.

He wept the tears he had longed to shed for Sam but had not known how; he wept for his brother and the loss of his childhood; he wept for Annie and for Sam's children; and he wept for himself, adrift in a strange land with a woman whom he feared might not love him and for whom he had given up everything, perhaps even life itself. He wept bitterly, noisily and without grace, his anguish pouring out of dungeons too long kept dark. He heard himself cry out through the scalding, anguished tears in desperation. "Alex – it's me! For God's sake believe it – it's me!"

He lost track of time; he lost track of where he was and what he was doing. His misery was absolute, his wretchedness complete. Then he felt a small new thing: a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off, unwilling to accept anything that might stem the flow of pain. But it returned, and this time he felt its insistence as it pulled him towards the physical comfort of another human being. He resisted, but not too much.

He felt her arms enclose him like a womb, keeping him safe from all the storms he had thought to shelter her from. She pulled him down until he nestled against her breast, where he'd longed to be since the beginning of time. Her scent bathed him like incense, and her softness soothed him into quietness. He felt her head bend to rest on his, her breath warm against his hair and, as she rocked him like a child, he felt that, at last, he had come home. Then he heard her murmur, "Gene – oh, Gene."

Sam had saved him again.

It was a long while before either of them moved, and when they did it was reluctantly, as though they had somehow grown together in adversity, and would be damaged if torn apart. Gene felt empty, cleansed, almost numb, and struggled to regain control of the situation. He roughly wiped at the remnants of his tears, but his great paw of a hand was displaced by another, more delicate one, that tenderly smoothed away the salt water of despair and left cool, refreshed skin in its wake.

He dared to look at her. "God, Bolly, you look as rough as I feel."

She smiled – still unsure, but now on the road to believing. "Badgers' arses."

He began to laugh, and the laughing started the crying again but, as with her, this time it was gentler, the fury and the passion gone and just sorrow and acceptance left. "I'm all right. I'm all right." He struggled to sit up, and she let him go, her hands sliding down his arms as if not wanting to break the contact.

"No you're not, Gene Hunt. You're a sham, a palimpsest."

"A what?"

A wicked light crept into her eyes. "Look it up. It's the age of the internet, Gene."

He let that pass. He had so much to learn. "What do you mean I'm a sham? This is genuine Manc Lion – proper Gene Genie – through and through."

"I mean you're like a chocolate that pretends it's hard toffee and turns out to be strawberry cream." He looked up and met her gaze fully, his sore eyes soaking up her beauty like a thirsty plant. "You are – you are really – are you my Gene?" Hope stood in her eyes like a rainbow.

_My Gene…_ There was a part of him that hardly knew what he was. It was almost as if he wasn't the Gene Genie any more – as if someone had touched the hem of his garment and taken that power from him. But perhaps without it he could stop being scared. Perhaps he could stop running.

"I'm your Gene, Bols."

"How did you find me?"

"Layton called me. I knew he would – I just didn't realise he would actually shoot you."

"And you came."

"Carried you out, all blood and water – getting to be a habit, me carrying you out of trouble."

Her eyes became distant. "Yes…"

"Hey – we're here now, together."

She refocused on him, and he saw the fear flicker again. "How?"

He shook his head. "Don't."

"But – Ray, Chris – oh, Shaz?"

He too had thought about them long and hard as he'd waited for her. He regretted their loss to him – especially Ray – but Alex was worth any pain. As for them… They were safe in their own world, secure within his memory. "They'll be all right. Ray understood."

"I _don't_ understand. Gene – is it really you?"

He took her in his arms again. "It's really me," he whispered. "It'll always be really me. I'm like a rash – you don't just shake me off."

"I thought I'd lost you."

"Never. You and me – unbreakable. Remember?"

"But you look just the same…"

"Good Mancunian air, that. Keeps you healthy."

He could see she was still struggling, trying to make sense of the senseless, trying to square an eternal circle. He didn't want her to have any more doubts: whatever the truth was, he wanted it to be her truth, and he wanted her to be content within it. As she opened her mouth to speak again, he leant forward and covered its sweetness with his own, letting the softness of her lips melt into his, finding himself in the taste of her, drinking her in like nectar.

He felt her fingers in his hair, and knew that soon he would be lost. He had to ask her one thing before he slipped beneath the glorious waters; had to keep his head for a few more moments. He gently pulled away.

"Bolly," he whispered.

"Mmm?"

"Will you promise me something?"

"Mmm."

"That you'll let me stay with you." He dropped his eyes as he spoke.

But she didn't reply. Instead, she pushed him back on the sofa, and reached to unfasten his belt. He froze, hardly daring to breathe, watching her in wonder. Bending her head, she gave him everything of herself that she had to give, and took everything that he offered her in tender, powerful submission. Afterwards, looking along the length of his chest with her tear-stained face, wanton eyes and reddened lips, she smiled mischievously. "OK."

Gene stroked her smooth hair and closed his weary eyes. _Yes,_ he thought, in deep contentment; it felt like reality but, if this was fantasy, he'd take it. Sometimes our imaginations can be a better place to live.

_The end_


End file.
